


The Filmarillion: Part One

by stonecoldsilly



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Growing Up, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:20:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28393782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldsilly/pseuds/stonecoldsilly
Summary: Blynwedd is only a boy, and a bright and curious one at that, forever trailing mud and brambles in his wake, but he understands.He promises his proud old father that he will do his best, and then his future is shaped around him, a crown of thorns he will never be able to cast aside.Being A Saga Of Filavandrel aén Fidháil of the Silver Towers and House of Feleaorn of the White Ships
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	The Filmarillion: Part One

**Author's Note:**

> in honour of our king's birthday!

...

Filavandrel will never know it, but his father weeps for hours the night he is born. 

Fidháil is considered past his youth by their people, and the gift of a son at such a late age is unprecedented. 

Before his birth, the house of Feleaorn was thought to be a dynasty on the brink of passing into dust, but celebrations ring out throughout the elven city from dusk until dawn, the bells of the silver towers ringing throughout the valley, peals of merriment and laughter chiming together as one. 

His wife sleeps, exhausted, even through the clamour of the bells, and Fidháil strokes the hair from her pale face, and stares down at his son. Fierce hope rekindles, once thought lost beyond reach, now alive and asleep in the crook of his arm. 

…

He is ten years old and he is still free. 

Shouts of blynwedd, _blessed child_ , greet him in the street as he runs, always anxious to escape the watchful eyes of his parents and explore. 

He wants to travel, wants to name each star and blade of grass, wants to taste the salt-waters of the sea on his lips, wants to run his hands through wheatstalks and grip them tight, feel the weight of his own steps upon the world.

Dol Blathanna is safe from danger, with borders patrolled by the finest warriors, but he is too much a treasure to be unguarded. His father frowns and his mother worries, but he still wanders, slipping over the walls and dodging his tutors even as they give chase.

He watches the other children play sometimes, when he can sneak away long enough to find a good hiding place. They are older, bold and brash, holding mock battles against dh’oine and whispering stories of their parent’s wars until the details are lost in the excitement. 

He was only brave enough to approach them once, but they called him _blynwedd_ with lowered eyes, stiff in his presence where before they laughed freely. He does not try again.

…

He is eleven years old, and freedom is just a word.

Daethu was fiery, once. Fidháil puts him to bed one night with a tale of their courtship, but it sounds so different from the mother he knows as to be unrecognisable.

Daethu weakened after his birth. It was difficult for her, and he knows, intangibly, that it is not his fault, but when he asks, the firmness of his father’s grip on his shoulder does not comfort him.

She slips between time and place sometimes, when the stars press close against their windows and all the world is hushed. She whispers chants about wolves and squirrels, visions shaking her raw, even as Blynwedd grips her hand between his own small ones and watches over her.

It frightens him, though he pretends not to be scared. He waits out endless hours in the dark, as the empty shell of his mother weeps and laughs.

The veil draws closed again at daybreak, and she sleeps.

…

He is twelve years old, and this is the last year of freedom he will have. 

The city of the Silver Towers is the finest in all the Continent, and he will repeat that to anyone who hears him, but in the privacy of his own head, the city is too watchful for him to feel at home. He is too aware of every move he makes, too tense and stiff to relax. 

He walks the streets at night, when only the witchlights illuminate the cobbles. There are fewer people to watch him out of the corner of their eyes, and he is still too young to understand why they do it at all. 

If he roams the city in the daylight, he can feel the prickle of people’s gaze on the back of his neck, and it chokes him, skin crawling under the burning sensation of awareness his presence heralds. 

He tries to stand taller under the weight of it, but he is only twelve years old, and so he roams further instead, seeking out the hollow places in the forest.

He hums merry tunes as he goes, voice crackling and blending with the sound of the woods and the wild.

He hides in glades with his lute, perches in trees and sings duets with the river-daughters who flash their fins and giggle at him. 

He walks alone, until he knows every branch and bough in the forest. 

He watches the starlings nesting with wide eyes, entranced for hours as they sing and preen in the sunlight. 

He loses himself in the brooks and creeks, watching the way the light dapples on the water. 

He sits for hours under the stars, seeing the great dance of sun and moon for himself instead of only in songs and tales, until his vision blurs and he has to wipe the tears from his face so he doesn’t miss a single step.

He is alone, but he is not lonely.

…

The evening before his naming ceremony, he has lived twelve years in a tower as tall as the sky, and his father takes him aside, more solemn than Blynwedd has ever known him to be. 

He sits on his bed, carefully holding his fidgeting hands out of sight, and listens to Fidháil of the White Ships explain their history, their lineage, the burden he carries as the lone heir of the Silver Towers, one of the few noble houses still waxing in glory, and how his naming confers on him a duty, that childish pursuits are his no longer. 

Blynwedd is only a boy, and a bright and curious one at that, forever trailing mud and brambles in his wake, but he understands. 

He promises his proud old father that he will do his best, and then his future is shaped around him, a crown of thorns he will never be able to cast aside.

…

He is named Filavandrel, solemn faces surrounding him, and if he doesn’t quite understand yet, he knows at least enough not to let it show on his face. It is a heavy name for a child to bear, full of the weight of history, and the chill of his forefather’s gaze now lies upon him as well.

There is only one portrait of the first Filavandrel, his namesake, to be found in any of the towers. The bellsong echoes like waterfalls as the celebration continues, but he creeps downstairs past the crowds, and studies the painting that night, tucked away on a corner of the upper floors fallen into disuse.

The portrait shows the moment his ancestor leapt down from his ship, the first of the Aen Seidhe to reach the new land.

Even for a painted figure, his spirit shines through, wild and capricious. 

They have the same blazing eyes, though age and years and worlds separate them, their eyes are the same.

That same wanderlust burns in them both, thinks Filavandrel, but his will never come to fruition. He has a duty, and though the chains are silk, they are still chains. He lives in the Silver Towers, the lord of Feleaorn’s heir, and their people will do him homage. He must be worthy of their trust, be their shield and protector, no matter the cost. 

Filavandrel is still only twelve, and did not think to ask his father what they needed protection from. 

…

He listens to his tutors with new vigour the next day, and applies himself diligently to every subject, to mastering the bow and arrow, learning their history and songs, sparring and fighting with full grown adults for hours, until he lies gasping on the dusty cobbles, bloodied and shaking with exhaustion, but still he gets back up.

…

Filavandrel runs with a brash pack of young warriors, hunting together and sparring fiercely at the slightest provocation. Hot blooded and capricious, as quick to laugh as they are to scorn. They watch him like the others, and he never lets the mask slip. Filavandrel performs every moment he breathes, except when he is alone, laughing louder, standing taller, a beacon that every eye alights on. The young lord is fierce, they whisper, and his father’s smiles, when the news reaches him, are heartbreakingly true.

…

Slowly he becomes all his people dreamed him to be, all his father hoped for, the perfect prince, until wild little Blynwedd is but a memory and not the truth of him.

…

Whispers reach him, even the lord’s son, of what the dh’oine have done to Loc Muinne, and people form little huddles in the streets, hands wringing with fear. It is a nameless terror, a formless enemy. Filavandrel has never even seen a human, only heard them described in hushed tones, and cackling ghosts haunt dreams across the city, ghasts of elves lost shaking those susceptible to Chaos into fits.

The ghasts used to be welcomed, a rare gift, whispering sweet words to carry to loved ones after an elf had perished even far afield; a little burst of Chaos escaping at the very instant of death to bring succour to the living. But the world has changed, and the echoes of elves dying in fire and blood ravage those still alive to hear them. 

Filavandrel is seventeen when he sees it himself for the first time. He returns from the hunt on market day, a dead stag draped over his stallion’s back, sitting upright and stiff in the saddle. He nods at those who catch his eye, and then a startled cry breaks the merry morning utterly.

One of the merchant-girls minding her father’s stall falls to the ground, and the shriek she lets out cleaves straight through him. A hideous anguished cry, wailing on and on, drowning out the bells, drowning out the crowds, drowning out the world, until all his mind rings with that piercing scream. 

Prickles of chaos burst like raindrops against his skin, and the girl convulses on the ground even as he watches, frozen. His horse shifts and dances beneath him, rearing up against the fleeing shoppers as they thrash against each other in their haste to run, only the heaving of their panicked breaths rising as they struggle madly to escape, desperation turning their faces hideous with fear. 

Filavandrel slips back into reality with a jolt, barely catching himself on the saddle as the stallion bucks, eyes rolling madly in its head. His guards shout for him, urge him to safety, but he pays them no mind and leaps clear of the saddle, running straight towards the girl and the ghast, for that is what it must be. He has heard reports, but never witnessed for himself the sheer horror that hangs in the once-warm air.

The chill of true death pierces him, such cold as he has never borne, that no living thing could bear, but he scowls defiance and presses on regardless.

The girl’s limbs flail madly, but Filavandrel kneels swiftly at her side, fine clothes on frozen dirty cobbles not even a thought compared to the terror on the poor girl’s face.

She is young, and barely conscious of his presence, though he tries to calm her. The marketplace is empty, his guards remain at a safe distance, and there is no-one but the two of them to hear, as the boy kneels beside her and pleads for calm, for mercy, chattering little verses and stroking her hair soothingly even as the piercing cry winds on. The cold grip of it aches in his lungs, sets his teeth on edge, grates over every nerve and bone, but still he hushes her and begs for aid. 

Her mouth foams, and the frost simmers in his blood, but he catches her frantic hands in his and offers what little comfort he can. 

The ghast ravages her, visions and torments of an elf’s death, even leagues away, a bloody end, and a vicious one, to have lasted so long.

Filavandrel bows his head and weeps for the girl, for the unnamed elf who is dying alone, for his own powerlessness. 

The performance of the prince shatters utterly for just a little while, and if anyone were to disturb them in their grief, no matter who, Filavandrel would tear their throat out with his teeth. 

A boy and a girl cry in the marketplace together, for an elf they never knew, and never will. 

The girl’s scream fades into terrified sobs, and the chaos fades from his awareness.

They clutch each other for comfort, alone in the square for one last moment, and then the warmth of the world rushes back in.

He is Filavandrel of the Silver Towers again, and the yoke of it settles back upon him as though it never left. 

He straightens, regal even in the dirt, and does not wipe the tears from his face.

Instead he takes the girl’s hand, and leads her to her frightened parents, who race around the corner and near bowl her over with their fussing.

He does not say a word, merely strides coolly over to his stallion and mounts it swiftly, his horse wheeling round in a great circle and galloping over cobbled stone back to the relative safety of the Towers.

If they must look to him so often, then he will be worth following.

…

His father’s rage is terrible to behold, but the ice of the ghast still gnaws at his blood, and fear seems a dim and useless thing. Half his guard are assigned elsewhere for their failure, and he hardly even notices Fidháil's fury over the screams of the dying still echoing in his head. 

It is not until he is alone, hours later in his room, that he comes back to himself. No light save the bright moon enters his room, and he gasps awake into life once more, staring at his tear-strewn face in the tarnished glass of the mirror. 

For all his pretence at maturity is effective, Filavandrel is still young, still untested, still sheltered from all the horrors of the world. He allows himself a measured breath, testing his control, and then his composure shatters. 

He wants to scream, wants to feel the mirror splinter under his fist, wants to run until his feet will carry him no longer.

Instead he weeps, bitter heaving sobs that leave him choking for air, grief and fear leeched from his tender heart tear by tear, until the dawn rises, and the towers shine dazzling silver through his window, and he is calm once more. 

…

More and more refugees from other enclaves arrive daily, bearing whispers of a great cleansing, of death and destruction too terrible to name aloud. Packs of younger elves make their way out of Dol Blathanna each night, blood stirred hot and ready to join the fight, even as their elders fret and wring their hands in despair, worried about the protection of the valley.

Their gaze lingers on him too often, both young and old, and he does not know what the Prince Filavandrel should do.

…

He returns from a hunt late one night, when the stars sing in harmony with the bells. He walks the shadowed halls to his quarters, and then Daethu falls into step with him.

He raises a still-bloody hand in greeting, smiling politely, and then his mother turns to look at him.

Her eyes are empty with madness, and he reels back in shock before he can calm himself.

‘Do you know how to dig?’ She asks, voice higher and colder than it ever is when she is awake.

Daethu has never slipped her guard on dangerous nights before, and he steels himself to reach for her arm, gently so as not to spook her. 

She rakes his face with her nails before he can dodge, afraid to hurt her, and her scream resonates through the towers endlessly.

‘Do you know how to _dig?_ ’ She shrieks, and then the guards are there, leading her firmly back to her rooms to lock her in.

He stands alone in the dark corridor, clutching his bloody cheek with bloody hands, and his mother’s words echo louder in his head than her screams.

…

When she wakes again in the afternoon and sends for him, dressed once more in silks and adorned in jewels, not a hair out of place, he does not allow a single muscle on his face to betray him. She does not look once at his cheek, the raised scratches of her nails still visible. 

They do not speak of it. They never do, pretending to each other and themselves. 

She smiles faintly as they take tea together in her parlour, and he lets his mouth run on without him, telling her of the latest gossip amongst his peers, all the while watching the way the smile never reaches her eyes.

Dusk falls, and they sing evensong together in a round, as they used to when he was very small, and a tiny crack of real delight is visible on her face for half a moment before her voice trails off, and that glimpse of happiness is damning. Filavandrel’s voice echoes her for a heartbeat, and then the song fades around them. 

He sings with her more often after that. Even a moment of fleeting joy is worth the ice that shivers down his spine as he studies her poise, day after day, wondering when he too will be trapped behind his own eyes.

The more he pretends, the more his wildness is eaten away, until it feels as though there must be nothing left. The seeming is becoming more real, and Filavandrel of the Silver Towers feels more like a looming shadow eclipsing the boy he once was. There are times when the first natural action he moves to perform is the one already chosen for him, and the path of his life seems to stretch out far ahead, each step already written long before he was born. The chains of his destiny tangle as he weighs his choices, and he longs to slip the noose entirely. 

…

Winter sinks into the land, and he cannot sleep. He slips ghostlike through the palace, remembering the old paths, and makes his way unseen through the fields and forests of Dol Blathanna, grass crunching softly underfoot.

He reaches the crest of the hills overlooking the city as the moon soars full and bright behind him. Frost covers the world, sparkling and glittering as he turns, mirroring the stars overhead a hundred, a thousand times over. His breath mists out in little clouds, and there is no sound to be heard save his own racing heart thumping in his ears. 

Behind him, the Silver Towers stand tall and proud, shining spires of glory and beauty, everything of home and hearth he has ever known. 

Before him lies the borders of their lands, and Aedirn beyond, and the war. 

…

Fidháil's hands are shaking, even as he shouts. 

He will not muster their army, or even send a token force to show support. He will not raise his gaze from this little valley to the greater world beyond, nor will he allow his son to ride out in his stead. 

Filavandrel looks at his father, and realises he no longer has to crane his neck to meet his gaze. Gone is the proud stern lord, and in his place, a scared old elf, too paralysed by indecision to do what is best for his people. 

If he is to be a great and true prince, as his people expect him to be, as his namesake was, as his father demands, then he must go above and beyond what they can imagine for him, what dismal little dreams of their own they pile onto his shoulders. He must do what is right, and what will protect their kind, the first choice made for himself in years.

He saddles his horse at dawn, and rides out, alone and afraid in truth.

He rides to war and blood and death, but his horse is fleet of foot, and the pale winter sun rises to shine on the golden valley.

He takes one last glimpse of the towers behind him, the bells calling his name, and wonders when he will return to hear them again.

He rides. 

…

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote most of this a while back and got Vexed by the inconsistency of sources for a reliable timeline! smashed out just in the nick of time for filly boy's birthday, WITH NO NOTICE, pls enjoy xoxo


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